Eric Idle's Writing Adventures
by Klicks
Summary: Why Eric Idle writes alone... Oneshot.


**Disclaimer: **I, in no way or form, own Monty Python or its wonderful writers/actors and quotes. This fanfic is almost fictional. It was inspired by the video 'Monty Python on Writing', where Eric talks about writing with the other Pythons, and I decided it'd be interesting to write about what MIGHT have happened. Some aspects of the Pythons' personalities are probably different from what they are in real life, (_aka. completely fictional and made up by me)_, because sadly I don't know any of the Pythons personally so I'm not entirely sure what they are like. So...! Personalities and events have been exaggerated for entertainment values.

Truthfully, I wrote this almost as a celebratory thing for myself. 1) Because I now have tickets for the Monty Python live show in July *yay!* and 2) I've recently acquired a guitar, which I got, well, today.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this. Apologies in advance for the terrible writing and bad charaterisation.

* * *

***Know what I mean, eh? Know what I mean? Nudge, nudge. Say no more!***

They'd been sitting in John's house when Terry J brought up a new idea. The six of them had been gathered in the living room, automatically splitting into their different writing groups. Terry J sat with Michael, both holding manuscripts and notebooks, whilst John stood with Graham, having both read out their various scripts. As usual, Eric sat alone, and Terry G had brought nothing but an empty notepad to scribble ideas in, his work being the only one which the other Pythons dared not to dabble in.

It was Terry Jones who first brought up the idea. With his usual amount of bright, irrepressible enthusiasm, he said: "I think we'll need a change in partnerships."

There was a moment of silence whilst the other five Pythons considered this with tilted heads and serious frowns. "You mean, we swap writing partners." said John, slowly.

"Yes." Terry nodded, glancing around the room for approval. "Eric's been writing alone for some time, and I think, if we try working with different people, we may be able to work out better material."

"Sounds as though you don't like the things I write." pouted Michael, feigning a wounded expression.

"Well…!" Terry shook his head, chuckling. "No, seriously. I think it would be good idea for some change, you know? We may be able to find some new material working with new people."

"Can I just say," put in John, his eyes sharp and clear, "that our current writing partnerships are very sucessful the way they are?"

Terry met the taller man's gaze. "Yes…" He said, slowly. "But I think Eric could do well with another partner, to back him up with his sketches sometimes. He's only got one vote."

"I don't think there would be any harm in trying to write with new people, anyway." said Michael, raising an eyebrow. He glanced towards Eric. "Eric?"

Eric shrugged. "We could give it a shot, I suppose."

"... Fine. Fine. I was just saying." John answered, straightening his collar. Graham had already taken a seat on the sofa, and seemed rather content just to be puffing away on his pipe.

"So, er, Graham. What do you say?" ventured Terry, turning everyone's attention towards the quiet Python. "Are you happy writing with someone other than John?"

Graham blinked slowly at him, as though hearing the question for the first time. "Oh yes," he said, eventually. "I can't imagine that would be a problem."

"Well, then it's settled." Terry declared, briskly, shuffling together his scripts and papers. "For the next few weeks, we'll try different writing partners. Eric, you can write with John. I will write with Graham, and Mike can write alone. How about that?"

There were general nods and shrugs of agreement, and Eric glanced at the towering form of the tallest Python in their group. John was a brilliant comedian, demanding, but experienced with his work. Writing with him, Eric reflected, was going to be very interesting indeed.

***This is an EX-PARROT!***

John turned up promptly, as they had planned, at 11 o'clock, dressed quite casually with a bag held in his hand. Eric welcomed him in, made a mental note of the fact that he was still just above John's chin in height, before the two made their way into Eric's study.

The study was not the tidiest place of the house. It was strewn with pieces of paper, notes scribbled in quick, scrawled handwriting and music manuscripts scattered upon the desk in dishevelled piles. A guitar was sitting arrogantly upon the chair, as though it owned the place, and somewhat sheepishly Eric removed it, remembering how much John preferred to keep his own house precise and organized.

John, however, didn't comment. He merely took his seat and began rummaging through his bag whilst Eric picked up his own notebook and leaned upon his desk.

"Any ideas?" John offered, looking at him expectantly.

Eric looked down at his notebook. "Well, let's begin randomly." He suggested, giving a vague gesture at his room. "How about… a man trying to have a music lesson?"

John considered the concept. "I see potential." He agreed, scribbling in his notebook.

Eric smiled slowly, ideas already beginning to blossom within his mind. "Perhaps he's asking about what type of music instruments there are lessons on," he started, beginning to get into his flow. "And the answer could be all sorts of crazy things! A Japanese nose-flute, an African instrument played with the toes…!"

"We should set this in a school." John interrupted.

Eric paused, a little uncertainly. "Well, yes…" He agreed,deflating somewhat after finding his flow broken so abruptly. "A school would be fine. Anyway, the list would go on and on, and then, perhaps the student would settle on some particularly extravagant sounding instrument… A... A Sweiderglieschoft, or something. Something German sounding, maybe. And then when he comes to the lesson…" He smirked. "He'll find that-"

"... 'The student enters the room and says: 'Hello, sir''." John decided, carving down the words with painsaking precision.

Eric blinked. "Well, yes, he could, but - "

"No, no," said John suddenly, frowning at his notebook. "'Hello' sounds too informal. He's talking to a teacher. Perhaps I should change that to 'Good morning'."

"... Um, yes. 'Good morning' would probably be fine." Eric said, watching as John scribbled through the 'Hello' and began to inscribe the 'Good morning'. "Anyway, the student picks an instrument which he thinks sounds very interesting, and when he turns up to his lesson - "

"If it's a school," said John, tapping his pen against his cheek, "then a student would go and find the teacher, or principle, at break, or lunch, wouldn't he? It wouldn't be something he'd do first thing in the morning."

Eric frowned. "Well, does that really matter at the minute? I mean - "

"No, no, no." Ignoring the younger man completely, John began to cross out the word 'morning'. "The student says 'Good afternoon', instead. That would make more sense."

"Alright then." Eric surrendered, sighing in defeat. "But maybe we should get to the end of the idea. Know where we're going, and _then_ decide on the script?" _Please, please John. Just let me finish_.

"Hmm, yes…" John nodded vacantly, eyes still focused upon his notebook. "Go on."

"Right, as I was saying, the student turns up to his lesson, thinking he's going to learn about some Finnish trumpet - "

"German."

"... German. Yes. That's what I said. But what he gets instead is - "

"What's the name of the school?"

Eric took in a deep breath and held it, only letting go once he was sure his voice wouldn't sound strained. "John, I don't think that's necessary."

John looked at him. "Of course it is." He stated, frowning. "We need a ridiculous sounding name. I think 'Banana Bottomsley' would be a good one."

"Well if we don't _mention_ the name of the school, it wouldn't be necessary."

"Then how can the viewers tell it's a conversation between a student and a teacher?" John challenged, raising an eyebrow. "We need to tell them, somehow, that the man who comes into the room is the younger."

"We can always dress Graham up with a big beard for the teacher." Eric dismissed, waving a hand. "Anyway, the music lesson - "

"Maybe we should make the student sound less formal." John said, his attention returning to the first line of the script. "'Good afternoon' sounds a bit stiff for a teenager. Maybe he says 'hi', instead."

And he began crossing out all the previous greetings.

Eric looked miserably at his calendar. Who knew how long this would last?

***Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!***

The next partner Eric found himself assigned with was Michael Palin, who turned up with his usual, amiable smile and a bottle of red wine.

"Hope you're well, Eric, Lyn." He said, with a swift hug and pat on the back to Eric and a warm kiss to Lyn. "I brought this, er, bottle of red round. It's very good, or so I hear. We could probably give it a try."

"You drink when you write?" Eric asked, somewhat surprised. "Hah, like a poet."

"No, no, I'm not a poet." protested Michael, modestly shaking his head. "I think that's Graham's job."

"Graham? A poet?" Grinning, Eric stepped back to allow the shorter man into his living room. "Aren't they supposed to be romantic and charming? When you look at Graham and his ugly pipe…"

Michael laughed, and with various ideas of Graham Chapman dressed as a Frenchman hanging over a Parisian balcony with a rose dangling from his mouth, the two men proceeded to Eric's study, sharing out Michael's wine in generous quantities with each other.

"Cheers." Eric raised his glass, and with a grin Michael mimicked the gesture. In silence, the two men sipped at the liquid. Eventually, it was Michael who spoke.

"Well? What do you think?" He asked, raising an eyebrow.

Eric licked his lips. "Good." He commented, taking another sip. "Mmh. Where did you get this stuff from? Remind me to stock up."

Michael laughed. "I think it was a present." He said, scratching his head. "French. Tastes a lot better than I thought it would."

"Well, I wasn't sure I could trust your taste either." Eric rolled his eyes, finishing off the wine in a flourish. "C'mon, let's have some more."

They were well into the third bottle before they remembered to begin writing.

"Something about a frog," mused Michael, staring seriously into his glass, "called Herbert."

"And he's a painter." Added Eric, draining his glass.

"And he's homosexual." said Michael, without even blinking.

Eric snorted. "Whoa."

Very solemnly, Michael continued. "He has a thing for toads."

"And tadpoles." Added Eric. "Don't forget the tadpoles."

Michael looked at him. "Why tadpoles?"

"Pedophile."

With this thought in mind, they made their way on to the fourth bottle.

... Which lead rapidly on to the fifth. By the sixth bottle, both men were settling comfortably in the phase of alcohol-induced confusion and hysterics.

"... He paints with wine." Concluded Eric, with a dramatic gesture of his arm that immediately send their half empty third bottle toppling. Red liquid gushed out in a river, blossoming and soaking through still blank pages.

"... Like that?" Michael sniggered, who, at this point, was lying sprawled out upon Eric's chair, barely keeping his glass upright. His face was a flushed, rosy red and his hair was wild.

Eric considered the wine sodden papers carefully. "Probably," he nodded, then frowned. "Hey. You haven't been writing anything down."

"... Oh." Michael blinked, frowning blearily. "What were we talking about?"

Eric tried to remember, but it was hard when his head felt so hazy and… light. "... Herbert, I think." He said, uncertainly.

"... Who's Herbert?"

"Herbert. Just Herbert." And then creative dyslexia kicked in. "Y'know, Mike, Herbert has 'tree' in it."

Michael looked confused. "What's that got to do with It?"

"... I don't know." Eric shrugged, staggering unsteadily to his feet. "C'mon Mike... Let's do some wine painting."

And so, with some difficulty, and with various, raucous attempts at being quiet, the two stumbled their way down the stairs, and into the kitchen, giggling amongst themselves. The rest of the evening was spent with bottles and champagne glasses flying. Why was wine spilt in the shape of penises so funny? Eric didn't even know anymore.

"... I think we're drunk, Mike." He concluded logically, leaning heavily against the fridge with wobbly, but distinct, shapes imprinted in wine upon his kitchen floor. "We are, in other words, completely, and utterly pissed."

"... It's fun though." Michael shrugged, and, swaying slightly, turned on the stove.

Eventually, a worried and understandably irritated Helen arrived in a bustle and took Michael home, but she did not turn up in time to stop the two drunk and excited young men from hosting an exciting rendition of 'who can toss a pancake the highest'.

… The result of which, after a long night stuck to the ceiling, came down heavily on Eric's throbbing, disorientated head the next day. Along with that, was the horrifying realisation that his notebook was as empty as the eight bottles of wine he had managed to plough through with Michael the day before.

And the unfortunate result of that was a very pissed Terry and John who, for once united, had a very good idea about where wine bottles could be stuck up if neither Eric or Michael were not careful.

Eric was not seen without a scrub and brush for days on end, and the irritated young man made a mental note to make as much of a mess as possible the next time he visited Michael's house. The short bastard seemed to have been able to escape scot free by the power of puppy eyes alone, god dammit. 'Nicest' Python indeed. Sly git.

And with that, the Eric/Michael partnership ended as swiftly as it had begun.

***Now, now! I think this sketch is getting far too silly!***

Graham Chapman was a tall fellow. Not as tall as John Cleese, of course, as he was just a few centimeters shorter, but his powerful, though quiet presence, more than made up for the difference in height.

Today, however, Eric was very much feeling the quiet side.

At that moment, Graham was sitting, apparently quite comfortably, upon Eric's sofa, his usual pipe stuck firmly in his mouth. Since the unfortunate incident with Michael, Lyn had ordered all future writing to be done in the living room, 'where I can see you'. Eric had tried to explain the predicament to his fellow Python, but Graham had merely shrugged and said: "That's quite alright." Before making his own way to the living room.

They sat together now, opposite each other, Graham chewing on his pipe, and Eric clutching his notebook. He couldn't help but notice that Graham hadn't brought anything, except for his pipe, along. Come to think of it, most of their get-togethers involved John with a heaving bag of scripts and drafts, and Graham with his pipe and a bottle of whiskey. Hmm.

"Well," began Eric, breaking the silence that had been shrouding them for some time, "I've been thinking of an idea for a while. Something about some really... Odd people, you know, trying to find work."

"Mmh..." Was Graham's contribution.

Eric decided that that was a sign to continue. "... And, well, they end up alarming the job interviewer. You know, there's going to be some kind of psychopath, who claims he's killed his wife and parents at the age of 10, trying to, sort of, promote himself to the job interviewer, who's going to be out of his wits' end by the end of this sketch."

He paused. Graham said nothing.

"Well... Uh, do you have any ideas, Gray?"

Graham merely chewed his pipe.

Eric took in a deep breath.

"... Alright." He decided, sighing. _How does John do it? _"Then I'll just start writing, shall I?"

Nothing.

Finally realising that he was, in essence, talking to a brick wall, Eric decided to pull through solo, just as he'd always done. Still, the rituals were to be performed, and he raised his head occasionally to ask questions, though the response, or rather the lack of it, was always the same.

"So, um, Graham." He tried, and this was the first attempt. "Do you think we can just end this with the Colonel bursting in and ranting about how silly it's getting?"

Silence.

"... Alright. That's a yes then." Eric decided, scribbling rapidly into his notebook whilst glancing discreetly at his fellow Python for a response. "I think we should just name the crazy man 'Mr. Psychopath'. That would be a funny name."

"..."

"... Good to know that you're on my side, Graham…!" This was driving him mad. With a defeated droop of his head, Eric continued to write in his notebook. "... And so the Colonel comes in, talking about how silly everything's getting, and then we can flick on to something else…"

When Graham failed to utter another syllable, Eric gave up completely.

_One day_, the younger man vowed to himself, silently. _One day, I'm not going to say a single word until he does_.

With this secret goal in mind, he welcomed Graham into his home a few days after that. The ritual greetings were exchanged, and both took their seat in Eric's living room, just as they had done a few days ago.

Neither said a word.

Expectantly, Eric tapped his fingers upon his notebook and looked at Graham.

Graham didn't meet his gaze. He just sat, as usual, chewing his pipe and looking very much as though he was lost in his own world.

Ten minutes ticked by.

_He really isn't going to say anything?_ Wondered Eric, mildly astonished. The urge to speak, for him, was overwhelming. Evidently, this wasn't the case with the elder Python.

Another ten minutes went by.

_Hmm_. Thought Eric, who at this point was entertaining himself by chewing on the end of his pen just as Graham was chewing on his pipe. _I wonder how long this will last?_

Still, Graham said nothing. Neither did Eric.

Two hours passed.

"Well," said Graham suddenly, startling Eric out of his doodles. "I'd er, better be off. Promised I'd visit the other chaps."

And left.

Leaving a bewildered Eric Idle staring after him.

… _Right_. He thought, blinking at the space Graham had previously occupied. _Well, that was an interesting experience_.

***And now, for the punchline.***

"How was it then, Eric?" asked Terry Jones, a few weeks after their little swap-around. "Is it any better writing with the others?"

Eric took a brief scan around the room. At the silent form of Graham Chapman, chewing solemnly upon his pipe; at the scribbles and crossing-outs scrawled upon John Cleese's tidy, precise handwriting; at the smiling Michael Palin, innocently scanning through his scripts with his usual 'nice man' façade... He took a deep breath.

"I think," he muttered, "I'll be better off writing on my own."


End file.
